


Needlework

by dev_chieftain



Category: Dragon Age 2
Genre: Gen, I Must Scream, M/M, Saarebas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:52:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dev_chieftain/pseuds/dev_chieftain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt on the DA kink meme:</p><p>Mage!Hawke (preferably usually sarcastic/funny Hawke) gets captured by Qunari, Fenris and co come to rescue him and find him with his lips sewn shut and have to carefully cut the stitches off. Fenris being protective/possessive or maybe going into a rage on the Qunari?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Who loves Saarebas!Hawke and creepy things? Oh yes, that was me.
> 
> *Work in progress, not sure how many chapters it will actually have when I'm done.

_This is why,_ Hawke thinks, in a tiny corner of his mind still capable of coherent thought, _I always bring Aveline with me into the compound._ But tonight, he had wanted to let her have time with Donnic. And when he'd arrived with Isabela, she'd made herself scarce. And Varric didn't get the Qunari, and while Fenris was certainly a great help Fenris had also just essentially used him as a one night stand and Hawke still wasn't exactly speaking to him.

It had all made perfect sense when he'd arrived, as the sun was setting and the clouds were molten with that lovely open sky you only get near the ocean. He remembers now that he'd been thinking wistfully of taking Isabela up on her offer and buying her the ship himself. When he walked into the compound alone, he'd expected the whole trip to take five minutes, maybe less.

A disturbing thing had happened instead. The Arishok's usual tolerance was worn thin, and he seemed unable to do anything but irritate the mysterious man. While Hawke was willing to mouth off to just about anyone in Kirkwall, he'd always chosen his words carefully around the Arishok, sensing that maybe this was all more important than him.

Then the great big horn-headed bastard had finally demanded, in his deep, rumbling voice, "You are a saarebas, are you not?"

Hawke had not thought quickly enough; or rather, he had thought quickly, but been exasperated, and his mouth was only all too eager to say, "Yes, of course. I thought you knew that?"

"It was suspected." Impassive, terrifying, alien eyes had gleamed in the setting sun's bloody light. Hawke had felt small. The compound had suddenly felt like a prison, a prison with hundreds of guards, all of them bigger than him and just waiting for their leader to signal for him to be subdued. "You have always served your purpose quite admirably," the Arishok had continued, thoughtful. "yet you have not realized your true purpose in the Qun."

"I do not serve the Qun." Hawke had bitten his tongue at sounding so exasperated but _really_ , it was frustrating how these people did not seem to acknowledge that _some people didn't want to be told what to do._ As he had searched for some relatively polite way to extricate himself from what was an increasingly awkward conversation, the Arishok's expression had gone from broodingly pensive to very still, very serious.

A predator's expression. A mountain cat about to strike. A wolf, growling. That was the look. "You will."

Lances had rained down on him then, battering his body before he could throw up any magical shielding at all; one gouged his left leg at the thigh, another had speared him through the shoulder, leaving his arm limp at his side, making it harder to cast. Before he'd had more than an inkling of the trouble he was in, poisoned arrows had followed suit, burying themselves in his back. Staggering. A world gone suddenly distant, vertigo rolling and pitching like a ship at sea. Small explosions of color as he crashed to his knees, gagging. Curious numbness up his spine, flooding him, and then he had been unable to move, drooping in the strong arms of a Qunari who pulled the arrows and lance from his body, bandaged him, and carried him away.

They didn't need to speak to know what to do; that was the terrible advantage of the Qun teachings and bizarre hive-mind lifestyle. He was unable to glean anything about why they'd just decided to capture him beyond his own status as a mage. He was carried into the back of the compound, far from where he might be seen or heard, and bound to a small wooden table with long, thick strips of leather he knew would ordinarily have been used to secure patients for dangerous surgeries. Anders had only one such table and Hawke had always made an effort to keep himself and his friends well enough that none of them needed to be laid down upon it. Most of them had issues with being trapped in one place, Hawke himself being no exception.

Words, now, floating over his head, but in that tongue he doesn't know. Hard three syllables, five rhythmic equally spaced syllables. A question, an answer. They pull the leather straps so tight he coughs, the air squeezed out of his chest. His fingers tremble where they, too, are bound to the table, itching for freedom. He wants to be able to talk, at least, to sass them for what they've done.

The paralysis is beginning to wear off, and he slurs raggedly, "If your Arishok doesn't like me, I swear I'll leave. No problem, no harm done-- he needn't have me killed. I'd really rather he didn't!"

Standing over him is a grim-faced Qunari man with a strange gentleness to his attitude. Hawke wonders numbly what role this particular individual fulfills. Slowly, he responds, ignoring Hawke's attempt at bravado and taking the rest literally. "You shall not be killed, Saarebas. Nor shall you leave."

He holds up a spool of thick, clean, un-dyed thread in one hand, a glisteningly sharp, large needle in the other. Hawke is beginning to find it difficult to keep breathing. Or no, he's breathing too hard, too fast. "Y-you're not going to do what I _think_ you're going to do. It's hardly sporting. And I'm not even part of your Qun anyway, so you really ought to quit playing these silly games."

Instead of acting like any normal person would, the qunari man frowns, his brow bunching in huge, thoughtful wrinkles. He shakes his head slowly, threading the needle where Hawke can watch it, aching deep in his head to use magic. When he realizes that he can't, he groans in frustration.

"What've you done to my--?"

"Your magic," the qunari interrupts, his voice low and quiet but commanding of respect, of silence. Hawke is trying very hard to still the mad beating of his heart, and gulps for air. It wouldn't do to panic. He is not panicking. He will not panic. "It is suppressed by the warders who guard this place of healing, Saarebas."

Hawke squeezes his eyes shut, hissing through his teeth. "Stop calling me that."

"It is your role." The qunari nods slowly, gesturing for the warders to come forward. They place their hands on Hawke's forehead, on his wrists, on his ankles: and when they look down at him, it's as though they are sucking all the life out of him, except it's only his magic, but it's such a very large part of who he is that he chokes on it, body arcing into the tight restraint of those awful leather strips well after they've finished. It's a pain far worse than any he has ever known before. It leaves his head pounding and his mouth dry. He finds it difficult to think, let alone move.

A hand is gently tracing his jaw. Two hands: they hold his face steady, while he limply lies there. Other hands, nimble, pass the needle into his cheek, just at the corner of his mouth, before he even has time to realize the pain. The knot pulls tight, but it will not hold without backstitching. He is alarmed and confused that he can think so critically of the process that is about to be visited upon him.

Nightmare. This is just a nightmare, it's got to be. He's had nightmares like this for a while, he's dreaded the idea ever since he discovered--

The needle passes through his cheek again, doubling back and pulling tight again, re-supporting the original stitch so it won't pull through. He feels faint. His feeble protests only make the Qunari hands squeeze his face tighter, thick fingers on his cheeks, holding him still as he whimpers like a pathetic dog, clawing at what little of the table he can reach, trying to wrench his face away without even the barest hint of success.

"Hold still," the qunari with the needle commands. "This process is known as _havandra'qun_. It can take as few as thirty-six stitches, or as many as a hundred. How many are required depends on you, Saarebas." Those eerie, inhuman eyes narrow warningly at him, even as he tries to fight free, desperately reaches for magic that simply isn't there, exhausted and terrified. "Choose wisely."

Hawke can't stop trying to scream throughout, but he counts the stitches. When they hit thirty-seven, his hope for release is broken; forty-nine, and the pain finally dulls his terror, the raw emotion of fear wedging in his throat. In the end, it takes sixty-six stitches exactly to seal his lips to the qunari's satisfaction.

"Good," he says, turning away, and Hawke dares to let himself hope that that will be the extent of it. Instead, the qunari turns back with an over-sized collar that looks more like a yoke for a beast of burden than anything else. "Now, we must attune your collar for perfect control, saarebas. Ashaad, let him feel the magic so he may demonstrate his powers while I prepare."

All Hawke can taste is blood, blood his own blood in his mouth and tears of exhausted confusion, shock, fear are rolling down his face. He is trapped, struggling in his own mind because no matter his thoughts, he cannot share them. He is unable to resist when, sensing his reticence, the watchers bring his powers to the surface, pushing the boil of magic through him to shape the spells he already knows for cataloguing, for attuning the collar to him completely, for learning his deficiencies so they can teach him, later.

They push the collar on over his head, letting him up from the table briefly, and fit it to his body, strapping it in place with chains. It's alarmingly tight at the throat, makes his shoulders feel heavy and strained.

Then they push him back down, and the qunari who wields the needle and thread has the Ashaad hold him in place again. "Now it is time to seal your sight, saarebas," he announces with that same cool detachment he has been using since Hawke was brought to him. "Close your eyes."

There is nothing he can do at all, because this is worse than a nightmare.

He cannot even scream.


	2. Chapter 2

The world is a pitch black hole, cold and dry with salty air, and the people of the world are bright flickers of sound and smell that mill far beyond the walls where he is confined, and now that he can't ignore it, the slow, seeping poisonous pull of Kirkwall is a siren's call in his mind. Dark, dark, dark and when he has sunk down to his knees (which is as far as the chain attached to the collar will let him drop) big hands, strong hands bring him water, which they let him suck up from a bowl, then soup. It's the only way, he notes dimly, to keep him alive. At first he had considered fighting that, but he knows that once, at least, he did not want to die. It is drown, or drink, and his throat is so incredibly dry, so he drinks.

Hands twisted up behind his back and bound to his elbows as they are, he could not cast magic as he knows it even if he felt it welling up in him again. Ashaad is vigilant, must be; he has not tasted magic in some time. (Days? Impossible to tell.)

They train him, slowly.

" _Maa barashan,_ " this is Ashaad's voice, a voice he is learning, quickly, to respect above all others, even the Arishok. Ashaad holds the control collar; and he is kind enough. He explains his meaning. "Now, behind you."

When they are training, he can taste the magic that used to be such an omnipresent part of him, can feel how Ashaad wishes him to use it. Behind him; he seeks out the target with a tendril of magic, and freezes it through as commanded. Doing as told expends exactly the amount of magic permitted him.

He does not wish to feel the control collar again, so he does not disobey. All he can really remember of that experience is that his body rebelled. Vomiting was never pleasant-- now it is a sick torture unto itself. He still tastes it in his mouth, still feels his split fingernails and the burns, electric burns, on his skin from where the collar's crackling shield of containment scorched him.

Ashaad turns the control device to the west. (How he knows it is the west is a mystery to him. But there is the west. Above him, birds are flying. Under the sick aftertaste of vomit, he can smell the sea.) " _Kevalash. Maa durashan._ "

He tries to make a sound, but all that comes out is a gurgling groan, piteous, animal. Even though Ashaad is letting him taste the power within himself, they have been at this for hours, and he is tired. His knees are weak, his hands long since numb. His torn robes feel rough on his skin where he is aware of them. The collar is heavy, so heavy.

"Very good," Ashaad translates for him amiably. "Now, to this side."

He jerks his head in the direction Ashaad wishes him to attack, seeks out the target with another tendril of magic, and blasts it with lightning. The effort makes him stagger, and he bows his head, sweating, panting, feeling tears sting the fresh wounds of his sealed eyes. It is not a saarebas's place to decide when, or where, or how to use magic: only to use it. Still, he feels frail and close to unconsciousness. He doubts his ability to follow Ashaad's directions if they continue.

" _Saarebas; im daokan vashte?_ "

This is one of the few phrases he remembers from earlier. (Earlier? But when, earlier? He has lost track of time.) It means _can you continue_. He is not compelled to answer truthfully, exactly, but he has begun to fear that Ashaad knows his limits precisely, and is toying with him. There are worse punishments than being bound in place and blasted by the control collar, but not many.

So he reaches down into himself, into the pit of his stomach for strength he doesn't really have, and forces his body to straighten, even against the cramping of sore and tired muscles, of his angry gut. Slowly, he nods. He wants to scream, wants to beg for mercy, wants to surrender but he can do none of these things.

"Good. Then, _maa jirudan._ In front of you."

He finds the target, obliterates it with a fist of stone. When the magic seeps out of him again, he finds himself abruptly unable to balance, and drops to his side before Ashaad can recognize his fatigue. He lies where he falls, taking in deep, heavy breaths, and lets Ashaad help him to his feet.

Chidingly, but with something almost resembling fondness, Ashaad says, "Acknowledge your limits, saarebas. You are pushing too hard."

He wants to say anything at all to that. _You will call me **Hawke**_ is foremost among all options. He is beginning to forget himself, and that scares him. The reasons for his coming here, his name, what it was like to see-- these are not the only things he is forgetting.

Ashaad unbinds his arms, and leads him back to the small tent where Saarebas are laid down to get their daily rest. Gently, gently, he is helped into the small pile of furs given him by Ashaad. He wants to scream, and fight, and rip the seams from his mouth. He would gladly suffer any punishment just to be able to shout again.

But he does not move when he has been laid down, and his conscious thoughts quickly dwindle to nothing. He does not dream; cannot, when Ashaad prevents him from entering the Fade or feeling his magic so resolutely. Perhaps it's for the best. He would instantly agree to any bargain that might let him escape right now, no matter how terrible the demon.

When he wakes, it is with Ashaad's hand on his arm, guiding him to his feet. The chain on his collar pulls, and he follows, stepping timidly because he cannot know where his feet will land, or on what.

"The Arishok wishes to see your progress," Ashaad explains. He's so very grateful to Ashaad; if it were not for Ashaad's careful handling he would know nothing, feel nothing, and the world would turn entirely without him. That Ashaad is willing to tell him anything is a treasure he has not failed to appreciate.

His own affection for the instrument of his capture is not lost on him. Just a little, he feels sick. (No, no, not again.) Wildly, desperately, he wants to scream.

"--Maker's _breath_ ," someone hisses. Female. Bas. He takes one step forward too many and Ashaad pushes him back with an elbow that could crush his ribs if it had hit him any harder. Wheezing, doubled over a moment, he steps back again, fighting to control himself. His hands are still sore from being bound behind his back so long.

"This bas saarebas has been contained," rumbles the low voice of the Arishok, carefully controlled, nearby but not right next to him. He can sense bodies, many bodies nearby. Sense tension, in Ashaad. He can't ask what is happening, but some tiny part of his mind is gibbering and screaming for help, _recognizes_ that voice. "You are welcome to conduct your business, but we will not relinquish a saarebas so dangerous. He has been training quite well, and is no longer a threat to anyone. You," the Arishok's scowl is palpable on his words, "should be grateful that we have neutralized this threat for you, should you not?"

Strangled sound of someone choking back anger. He is bizarrely conscious of the sound of a hand hitting leather, as someone stops someone else from charging. He can smell the lyrium glow on the air. Feel magic, not his own.

Ashaad feeds him power, and he blocks the attack without even thinking, shielding the Arishok, himself and Ashaad, then falling to his knees in exhaustion.

Voices shout in disbelief, _Hawke!_

That is _his name_ , but he has fantasized about nothing but rescue from the moment he was brought to the qunari with the needle and thread now part of him. He doesn't believe these are the people he wishes they were.

The fight begins in earnest. Ashaad feeds him power, and barks the commands he has been repeating ad nauseum for the last however many days. Behind you; to your left. To the front. To the front, and up. All around us. He fires lightning and stone, fire and ice; he paralyzes one of their enemies, catches another with a cage of only air, crushing until he-- it is a man, a bas man with the elf-scent-- breaks free.

Just a little bit he is uncertain. As saarebas he has no choice but to do as he is commanded, yet he is becoming too tired. Ashaad pushes anyway, filling him with the bright beacon of magical energy and commanding him to bring down the lightning storm upon them all. While he is obeying, something suddenly-- changes.

There is a wet noise and he can taste _finality_ ringing through his skull. Something slips. Sensation like a weapon puncturing his chest, slicing up into his ribcage. The vague assurance of Ashaad's nearby presence is, abruptly, no more than a blur of memory on his brain. He staggers, slumping down and retching, fighting hard to keep the bile in his throat and not his mouth. Grief: what will he do without Ashaad to teach him? Worse, now he can feel the magic he once cherished and used so easily, well within his grasp. He tries to push it away, knowing himself too tired to use it.

Hands grab him-- small hands, not the hands of the Qunari-- and drag him. The sounds of fighting follow them out of the compound, and the smells of the sea are stronger here. He doesn't know why he is being moved, or why these Bas have taken an interest in him. (Maybe he does, but he doesn't dare to hope only to have that feeling crushed.)

As soon as they're out of the compound, someone destroys the control device for his collar. Someone else sweeps him up into strong, armored arms. Woman's voice saying _hold on, Hawke. Hold on._

He can smell them: woman, elf, dwarf. The elf is gleaming in his mind's eye, a twisted beacon of flesh and lyrium, and the woman holds him close. Stranger still, he can smell their anger, their fear, their worry.

(Can it be that these are really--?)

"Hawke," it is definitely a familiar voice, this woman carrying him.

"He is delirious," hisses the elf, angry and confused. Just like Fenris to--

He can't stop himself from panicking when he begins to think that maybe, just maybe, this doesn't have to be a fantasy. He grabs the front of Aveline's tunic, so tight his knuckles shake. A sound begins to boil up in his throat, a sound he knows. A sound he must make or he will lose himself forever.

"Flames," Aveline sounds almost frightened, almost like she's upset and sad-- "It's us, Hawke. Don't worry. We've got you. We've _got you._ "

His whole body quivers with need. They can't understand, because they aren't using the subtle magic of the control collar-- they destroyed it. He lets go her shirt, reaching up to tear at the stitches in his mouth himself.

"Maker, Hawke, no--" Aveline stops, catching both of his hands in one of hers. The sounds of other footsteps pacing lightly around him also halt. He gurgles again, frustrated and just about ready to suffocate on the impulse he desperately wants to make reality.

Varric's voice, hoarse and horrified. "Look what they've done to him," as if looking will accomplish anything.

He struggles again, but Aveline won't let his hands free. Fenris steps in, borrowing the belt-knife Hawke carries just in case they get stuck out of doors and need to skin something for dinner. Quickly, sacrificing a bit of Hawke's lips to do it, he slices away the threads, hissing, "Stop your struggling, Hawke. You must see the abomination."

These words are meaningless, as if they came from beyond the Void. All Hawke cares about is the simple fact that he can open his mouth. He does; gasps for air he could not breathe deeply, discovers the ten or so stitches remaining when he tries to open his mouth wider and can't.

He doesn't care. He just starts screaming, content never to stop. He screams until they knock him out to silence him, and then he knows nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

Voices clamoring nearby are what wake him up. Sobbing; someone exhausted and as confused and hurt as he is. Selfishly, for a second, he's glad it isn't him, whatever's happening. Then he burns with the need to help, and surges awake, tries to sit up in one smooth motion. But-

 _He's on the table, strapped down, leather biting into his neck, his waist, someone holding his face still--_

He screams, throwing out all the magic he can taste (strange; there it is, glittering just like it used to, uncontrolled, un-dampened) in a blast that contorts the air itself, throwing everyone in the room away several feet. Screams, and tries to rip his arms free of the leather straps, writhing desperately. They had seemed very secure, but now they're pulling tighter, driving the panic up his throat. The ones around his wrists snap: old leather, musty.

(Smells like Darktown). He can't open his eyes, but he can smell it, taste the ash on the air. He's only dimly aware that he's still screaming when something like a blue sword slices through the haze of half-understood sounds and smells that is his whole world, touching his face, his eyes. Icy calm pours into him, and finally he stops to breathe, nearly choking on the air he had been ignoring.

" _You are safe,_ " swears that pulse of calm, and he can perceive it as a figure in armor, a hulking spirit of pure blue energy. He feels something lurking there, some kind of unquenchable fire of anger, but it is not directed at him. There are still leather straps digging into his legs, his waist, even though he has bested some of them. Panic blazes hot in his mind, but the spirit soothes that away again, quenching the flames of his terror with ice, thick ice, implacable ice. " _You are safe. You will be protected._ "

He can hear a strange exhaustion, hoarseness, in the spirit's voice. A battle has been fought here, a battle he was not conscious for. With whom and why, he's not sure. Something about it, though, familiarity or simply that aching exhaustion that he knows so well penetrates the fog of blinding emotion in his thoughts.

" _I will let no further harm come to you,_ " the spirit swears, and Hawke (he has a _name_ he is not _saarebas_ , a name, a name unique to him) believes him. Slowly, slowly, the tension fades, and he lays back wearily on the examination table, familiar sounds of Darktown trickling into his awareness, sensations he was too frightened to acknowledge becoming a part of his world once more.

Someone is clutching his hand, someone that isn't Justice-- isn't Anders. He can feel the anger, the hatred boiling off of Anders now, and understands it, even as he is too tired to share it. Soft curses in Arcanum-- that will be Fenris, whose soft pacing is barely audible on the far side of the clinic. The hand squeezing his is stubby-fingered and small.

"Are you safe, Anders?" Aveline's voice asks at last, sounding just as weary as the mage. From the shift and clank of armor, Hawke can guess he awoke in the midst of an argument of some intensity. He is too scatterbrained to really piece together what the argument was about, though he has a vague impression it related loosely to him.

"Yes," the fingers pressed to his temples slowly ease away, seeming a bit too cold, numb from the effort of holding in an angry spirit, of beating back Hawke's terror. It's in check, at least for now; everyone in the room seems to breathe a sigh of relief. "Yes, I'm-- I'm in control, now."

Ordinarily, this is where someone would jokingly say 'Maker be praised!' and roll their eyes. Instead, Hawke turns his head toward where he thinks he can hear Anders's voice, shuddering still, revolted by the sensation of those leather straps that are yet intact. "Please--"

His voice is raw, grates like rocks grinding together, and rough with disuse. He has trouble finding the volume he usually speaks with. Some words come out a ratty whisper. It's hard to speak, his lips don't quite shape words right.

"Please, I can't move," he begs, not caring what they may think of him, "I can't-- let me go, please, please let me go."

Anders's response is a strangled, vehement curse as he moves away from Hawke's head, ripping the leather straps away himself. He can feel Fenris watching him, lightly squeezes the dwarven hand holding his. For her part, Aveline steps forward and, almost tenderly, strokes his hair away from his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Hawke," Anders whispers as he undoes the last of the restraints. It becomes possible to just breathe again. Hawke is so grateful he could weep, but it's hard with his eyes sewed shut. He feels a little claustrophobic, blind like this, but it's the kind of fear he can keep in check. As long as no one covers up his mouth, he'll be fine. (He tells himself this in tight circles of logic, forcing himself to remain calm. It is incredibly difficult.) "I didn't think-- it doesn't matter. Can you-- if I sedate you, I think you'll be still enough. We can't have you moving while I take those stitches out."

It doesn't appeal to him, but does sound better than being bound to anything, ever. He nods weakly. "That's-- yes. I'll try." Anders steps away and behind him, a little bit north, Hawke can hear jars rattling as Anders begins searching through his stores for something suitable to their situation.

"Daisy got out okay?" Varric's voice asks, warm and soft and sad. He is like a soothing balm, like a state of meditation. When he speaks, even for a little bit, Hawke feels more like himself. "I didn't really stop to look."

Aveline's armor clanks again. "Yes. She's gone to look for Isabela, just in case she might know something about what happened." For all that she endeavors to be perfectly calm, Hawke gets the impression that Aveline is already blaming Isabela for everything. That is foolish; he blames himself for not bringing others with him, blames the Arishok for being a sadistic bastard. "I wanted to go report this to the Viscount, since I suspect he's the one that sent Hawke down to that damn compound in the first place."

Something electric catches in the air. Not quite the same single-minded purpose of the Qun, but it's similar. A burning to do something very _particular_. Varric pats Hawke's shoulder and hops down from his chair, joining Aveline. "I'd like to accompany you on that venture, if you don't mind."

"Not at all. Might find Isabela and Merrill before I do as well t'make a show of...force." Aveline's voice is as brilliant as a bonfire, and he knows she will not be letting this matter slide.

He's in no shape to interfere. He is still so dazed he's not even sure if he would normally encourage them not to go. Instead, Hawke's lips shape a goodbye his throat does not give voice to, more than a ruin of a whisper. They promise him they'll be back soon, they leave. He can feel them go, feel the door to the clinic close.

Feel Anders, hear Anders, stirring something in a wooden cup, bringing it over to him. Anders's hands, carefully helping him up, helping him to drink. (And snarling, Fenris, beacon of lyrium and flesh, pacing, pacing, pacing. It makes him dizzy.) "There we go; you sound awful," Anders murmurs, inordinately tender, a little sad.

Unable to really give voice to much, Hawke settles for a curious sound to make his inquiry. His mouth is incredibly sore, lips peeling and cut where Fenris (Maker bless him) couldn't keep the knife steady when he sliced away most of the stitches. That's not accounting for his tongue, which is also sore and dry. It hurts, but doesn't matter; the stuff he is drinking tastes chalky and is cool on his too-hot tongue. It makes his throat feel a little numb, but that dulls the stinging from all his screaming.

"Mabari's claw," Anders answers with a tired little laugh. "You know, that bland, horrible stuff that only grows in Ferelden? Elderly lady donated that a year or two back. Never needed it before now." His sigh is uneasy, and he seems to be unnerved, being near Hawke. There's a curious strain in his voice-- still struggling with Justice, most probably. "It'll take a while, but that'll have you floating once it's doing what it should, and then I can take out the rest of your--"

Long pause, as Hawke swallows a knot in his throat, tries to steel his nerves. Thinking about what Anders will have to do does not make it less similar to what was already done.

"--your stitches," Anders finishes, voice thin with stress. "I- I'm sorry, I need to prepare." Hawke can feel the other mage turn away, feel the way that Fenris stops suddenly, looking up without his name even being called. "I need you to guard him until he's numb. Can't do anything for him like this, it'd be cruel. I'll be back when--"

Anders trails off, and for an instant Hawke can taste Justice's icy fury on the air.

"--I'll be back," Anders promises.

A soft snort is the only answer at first, but Fenris quickly moves closer, taking Anders's place by Hawke's side. Anders, smelling of magic and Justice and a little bit of uncontrollable anger, goes into his back room to try to calm his emotions. When the time comes, Hawke suspects he will appreciate the benefits of such effort or, if it ultimately fails, get to learn how steady Anders's hands really are. Hawke is already tired enough that he can't sit up on his own, still exhausted from the grueling work under Ashaad's command. Thinking of it makes him shiver, comforted and conflicted by the feel of his magic being entirely within his reach. One moment, he is sure he must be safe, because he can fight if someone tries to silence him; the next, he is sure he is in danger, because there is no one to control his power, no one to keep him in check.

When it has been still in the room too long, he turns his face as if to look at Fenris, who has been looming silently near Hawke's knees, watching him. Fenris makes a startled half-sound at the motion, and Hawke fidgets, feeling those eyes on him, wary and aching.

He tries to smile, buoyed by the warmth and chalky residue of the strange drink Anders gave him deep in his throat, almost tickling. It is a feeble attempt at best, and it makes him painfully, intimately aware of each tear in his lips, of stiff remnants of the severed stitches, dead in his skin. Of those stitches still intact.

Grimacing instead, he whispers apologetically, "I'm sorry, Fenris."

Baffled, the elf seems to gleam brighter in that strange dark knowing of the world he has like this. A hand, that takes his hand. He squeezes it gratefully. "What could you possibly be sorry for?" Fenris hisses, bending close, kissing Hawke's cheek apologetically. The contact makes his skin itch, makes him particularly aware of the stress the stitches through his eyelids are putting on the rest of his face. "I should have gone with you," Fenris adds, in a rueful tone.

"I didn't ask," Hawke counters easily, distracted by a strange, lifting feeling. It's starting with his chest, as if he were actually rising above the table, just a tiny distance. The sensation is enhanced by his inability to see. "I shouldn't have gone alone. I--"

"If you blame yourself, I will leave until you have set that foolish notion aside." Fenris's voice conveys a peculiar petulance, a sort of strange growl that sends a thrill up Hawke's spine, _danger_.

He's not sure why he wants to push for more of that, but he does. "Oh?" As the light sensation begins to spread through him, he finds himself laughing drowsily, relaxing from a state of panicked tension he hadn't even realized he was in. "Are you holding yourself hostage against my self-pity?" The very thought is enough to make him start chuckling, even if he feels that he has little sway over the laughter, and it is alarmingly similar to sobbing uncontrollably. The right nudge, and he will not be laughing at all. He tries not to think about that, carefully keeps his thoughts light, tries to rein the laughter in when he can.

Fenris dourly answers that yes, he is, and Hawke loses his tenuous grip on control, giggling until Anders returns, proclaiming him ready from somewhere far above (below?) his head. This time, it is Fenris's hands that steady his face, while he gasps for breath between mad laughter and Anders very cautiously cuts away the stitches, one at a time. Having them pulled out nearly puts Hawke back into that tense, frightened place he was at when he woke.

Then waves of magic hit him, healing, cooling, wonderful magic, almost suffocatingly powerful. The little holes left by the thread close, each leaving a tiny bit of scar tissue, little raised spots that do not quite go away. He is grateful, relieved, overwhelmed. The energy expended in laughing and in being healed is no small thing. Instead of profusely thanking Anders, he simply opens his eyes, delighting in the mass of unfocused color that greets him, the slow process of his eyes adjusting to what they have not been used for in-- in some time.

Only now does he feel like he is actually free; that hits him hard, and before he really knows what he is doing, he is laughing and weeping, hoarsely whispering "thank you, thank you, thank you" when he can gather his wits enough to do it. Fenris and Anders, who have always fought like tomcats in an alley trying to claim territory, are silent to either side of him, letting him grip their hands so tightly that the bones of their fingers creak. Later, he will ask how long he was missing; what happened while he was being treated to the Arishok's hospitality; how they found out he was missing, how they found _him_.

For now, it is enough to see.


	4. Chapter 4

Everything seems unfamiliar now.

Aveline's face, when she returns: beautiful. He could kiss her. He accepts her strong embrace instead, trying not to feel small in it, reassured by her armored support, by her Tough It Out, Soldier smile. And yet, Aveline has never looked at Hawke like he was fragile before and he has never been so frightened of touch. Even a simple handshake from Varric makes him hesitate, despite his best intentions to just smile and be glad to see all of them again. He loathes the ache of his unattended belly and ignores it as long as he can, but Anders sees through that ruse and enlists Fenris (surprisingly willing, if it's for Hawke's sake) to bring over a bowl of soup, a small loaf of bread that some grateful family prepared as thanks.

It’s going about as well as could be expected, really. A stumble here, a falter there, but he doesn’t quite lose balance, doesn’t topple back over into that place where he just needs to scream. Varric helps him shuffle away from the bed while the doors are opened again to Anders’s regular patients. They sit down in a corner of the clinic where he won’t draw attention, and he rests his back against the wall, marveling at how his hands tremble with exhaustion, even while he can feel his magic brimming out of him. "Comfy?"

"Yes." Battening down the panic he feels at having so much raw power on his fingertips, he swallows hard, crushing it under some semblance of control himself. It wasn’t so long ago that he was fine without having someone to siphon all this excess away. He can learn to handle it again. He _can._ Still, it's difficult to focus. He's intensely aware of where the stitches _were_ and where they shouldn't be, of the sound of his own voice. Of Varric’s proximity. Of the strange lingering vomit and blood taste in his mouth. "Thank you, Varric."

"Not a problem." Varric plops down beside him. They aren't making much of a scene now, though of course before mortifies him. No matter how Anders reassures him that no one else was in the clinic for his fit of mad screaming, he can't stand to think about it. There's something else about it he doesn't like, something sinister. Awful. "Let me catch you up on what you missed?"

Fenris, at this moment, brings over the bowl of soup that Anders had insisted Hawke should eat, along with one small, only slightly stale roll of bread. Numbly, Hawke takes the bowl and stares down into the soup. The smells of Darktown, the clinic, his friends-- all that slips away. He feels curiously dizzy. _Drink, Saarebas._

Soup, because nothing else can get past the stitches. In or out. His stomach turns anxious somersaults at the thought of being punished again, remembering the uncontrollable spasms the collar sent through him. Quite without meaning it, he drops the bowl and has to turn away from them, shaking.

"--Hawke?" Varric's voice filters through the haze of remembered Qunari words, the memory of the soup that didn't smell any different from this, because it's not like there's much to make into food in Lowtown, let alone Darktown--

"What's happened?" Now that's Anders; the hands trying to touch his shoulder are shooed off. While they chatter in faint voices he can't quite understand, he covers his face, breathes deep, tries to find his center and forget about soup. His skin crawls. He is not doing a very good job. Eventually, Anders's voice addresses just him, breaking through that haze. "Hawke, please. You have to tell me what's wrong, or I can't fix it."

His throat is dry. His mouth feels sour. "--not soup," he whispers, swallowing bile. "Bread's fine. Not soup."

He can sense their confusion. Maybe some day not _today_ he will be able to explain himself. He’s not sure. Right now it’s hard enough to talk, as he finally lets Anders pull his hands away from his face. For a moment he's afraid he'll be force-fed the Much More Nutritious for Him soup even so, but Anders seems to think better of it and takes the bowl (and what can be salvaged of its contents) off to another hungry patient, returning a little later with water to drink to at least ease the dryness of the bread.

Fenris sits with him, asking nothing, just-- looming. Somehow that makes him feel like he is safe.

"I'm sorry, Varric, you were saying?" Now that the eerie memory is fading, just a little, he can smile at his best friend and encourage him with a wry chuckle. Not that Varric’s buying it. "How long was I gone, exactly?"

Dark eyes flicker away, and Varric makes a point of examining Bianca’s trigger, pretending to be engrossed in a sudden, minor repair. Hawke's learned by now that this can only mean bad news. "Three weeks, Hawke."

It makes sense. He lets that news sink in, closing his eyes and taking a bite of the bread. Some small part of him takes fierce pleasure in how tough and chewy the damned stuff is. He can chew, he can _eat_. He can move, and talk, and laugh. (Can scream.) "All right," he says, once he's absorbed that tidbit, those sensations. "What's happened?"

"Not as much as I'd worry." This admission only seems to disturb Varric further. He is now smoothing his gloved fingers along Bianca's string, testing for any fraying. "The Viscount's son has gone missing again, but this time it's publicly known that the decision was voluntary. Most people have been busy gossiping about that. None of the nobles noticed their neighbor wasn't home," Varric quips wryly, "but my guess is, you'll be glad about that."

Hawke simply nods. He is. _Very._ "Any news from him?"

"Nothing much; we're not exactly on friendly terms with the Arishok now that we've busted you out. He refuses to deal with anyone but Aveline, and given the bloodlust in his eyes, it's pretty obvious he wants to just snap her neck if she'll give him the chance."

"Fortuitously, Aveline is not as stupid as I am," is his answer. He takes another bite of the bread, beginning to actually taste it, and doesn't realize at first that the beat missed was his fault. Varric's hand clenches into a fist for a moment, but that's all. It makes him feel guilty, the way Varric is so quiet and serious, the way Anders keeps glancing at them to make sure nothing’s gone wrong. Hawke adds, in a lighter tone, "besides, I have dibs when it all goes to hell."

Fenris tips his head to the side, not willing to hold his peace at that statement. "Pardon?" With his back to the wall, Hawke can appreciate Varric's slight glower of protectiveness, as well as the way Fenris carefully does _not_ say that he thinks that is a singularly bad idea. Hawke lets himself slump forward over his knees, arms laced loosely about them in that sagged over way that used to annoy his mother so much.

His mouth twitches, but not into a smile exactly. Something a little more reckless, less-- good. "I'm going to kill him, is what I mean."

"You, kill the Arishok?" No surprise in Varric's voice, but a good measure of disapproval that says Hawke would never be able to bluster his way past the elf and dwarf to even _try_. That’s oddly comforting. Maker, this bread is the best thing he's ever tasted. Because he can taste it, and chew it and-- "Well, you'd probably better rest up before you go through with that plan, Hawke. You okay to get back to your place when you're ready?"

Before Hawke can wonder if he has the strength to stand, or reveal in embarrassing detail just how deeply the 'Ashaad' he was being led about by had gotten into his thoughts, Fenris intercedes. It's lucky he does. Anders would never let Hawke leave the clinic if he'd actually spoken: _Where do I need to go?_ isn’t the correct response by a long shot, even if it’s been driven so deep into his thoughts he actually can’t quite remember where he lives at first.

"I will escort him."

It is exhilarating and frightening how much relief he feels at that slightly commanding tone. Hawke glances up at Fenris, swallows down his jovial response, and nods in agreement. He needs the assistance just to stand, at the moment. Walking all the way up to Hightown would have been nigh-impossible alone.

 _Maa jirudan._ He blinks away the thought, forces himself to his feet, wobbles and is caught by Fenris and Varric both. "I'd like to go now, actually," he mumbles, pulling out a sheepish grin to try to deflect their concern. "Sleep in my own bed for a change."

No dice. He can see the sympathy in Varric's face as he shrugs and lets Fenris take the rest of Hawke's weight. "You do that, Hawke. I’ll check up on you tomorrow.”

From across the clinic, Anders scowls at them all, calling chidingly, “Don’t push yourself, Hawke. I’ll be by later tonight.”

Stifling. “Well,” he jokes weakly, in a whispery mumble that only makes it to Fenris’s ears, “I’ll try to be quick so we can have a little time to ourselves, then, hey?”

The elf stiffens very slightly, but does not otherwise acknowledge anything Hawke says for the rest of the trip. Probably for the best; most of it is nervous babbling, whenever he misses a step or lingers, looking around uncertainly at a city that _feels familiar_ , but isn’t quite as he’d left it. He can’t remember the turns, the twists. His feet reflect the timidity he feels, and when they reach his home, he looks at it without recognizing it for a long moment.

The sounds of Hightown are muted, compared to the raucous clamoring of angry shouts and steel in Darktown, the market roar of Lowtown. Faintly, he’s aware of bells; he can hear the wind howling about the halls of this cliff-side fortress, smell the faint touch of the sea. That there is the Hawke estate, and he knows it. That’s the Amell family crest, the one Carver (rightly) thought a bit creepy, inappropriate to want hanging on your door. He sucks in a breath when it sinks in that he’s home, and yes, he does still live here, and it’s not like it’s been _that_ long for him to be acting like he doesn’t know the place—

“Are you all right?” Fenris asks quietly, steadying him without so much as a second thought.

Hawke’s hard pressed to answer. Is he all right _in a strictly physical sense_ , yes. But there are a lot of other things to that question, and he knows Fenris meant each possible permutation. So he nods quietly, saying, “Good enough.”

“Very well.” They proceed forward, Fenris leading with silent steps, bare feet almost gliding over the paving stones. Not quite through the foyer, they hear the sounds of Bodahn and Sandal rushing to see them in, just in time for Hawke to cringe away into Fenris and the elf to straighten under that fear, taking charge.

“Messere! Messere, you’re alive!”

Is—Bodahn crying? Is _Sandal_ clinging to him? Hawke tries to sort that out, stammering “Y-yes, Bodahn—“ just in time to be slammed into full force by Orana, of all people, who is now clinging to him in a hug that severely compromises his balance, weeping into his chest. They can’t tell him how much they’ve missed him, but they try, all at once, and he feels shaken by how much he had missed them, too. “Bodahn—I—I’m sorry,” he says at last, when he realizes he doesn’t know what to say, exactly. He is awkwardly patting Orana’s shoulder, watching the dwarf dry his eyes on a sleeve, puzzled by the way Sandal is gripping his knee and mumbling about _the birdy come home_.

Fenris clears his throat. “Serah Hawke,” he says, very gently, “needs his rest.”

“Oh, yes, messere!” Bodahn says with a sudden start, pulling his son away, even as Orana remembers herself and steps back, averting her eyes in embarrassment. “Oh, by all means. If you need anything—anything at all—just shout. Will you be staying with him, messere?”

“Yes,” Fenris says simply. “He will need more food, I think. Not soup; if you have cheeses or fruit, that might be best.”

“Right away, of course!” And then, just like that, all evidence of distress is gone from Bodahn’s face, and he tugs Sandal away by an ear, Orana by one slender hand. “Come along, you lot, let’s give master Hawke a bit of space till he’s feeling better, won’t we?”

“Oh,” Orana says quickly, eager to please as always. “Oh, yes, of course.”

“ _Bird!_ ” Sandal calls excitedly, running off into the kitchen before Bodahn can realize his son is taking Initiative again.

It’s so strangely—normal. Hawke is beside himself with quiet laughter as Fenris forces him, step by treacherously difficult step, up the stairs to his room. It’s as though none of it ever happened. Too strange. Far too easy. He’s not even certain that taking his previously promised revenge will do anything to remedy this weird feeling that those three weeks didn’t even really happen.

When they reach his bedroom, he wonders, fleetingly, where he’s meant to sleep, looking to a corner even as Fenris drags him towards his bed. That pressure on his arm is confident control. It tells him, albeit silently, which direction to turn, where to go. Hawke gives in with something like relief, following Fenris’s lead and letting the elf strip him from his filthy clothes without even a hint of embarrassment. “Lie down,” Fenris tells him simply, and Hawke crawls into the bed without a second’s hesitation, not even a word of comment.

Something in the elf’s eyes softens, and now Fenris’s voice has a note of sorrow in it:

“Stay here. I’m going to get soap and water.”

It’s not such a long time that Fenris is gone, really. But he’s rarely had a chance to rest for more than a few hours at a time, these last few weeks, and his mind readily drifts. He is determined not to fall asleep, keeping his eyes open, singing softly to himself as some sort of bizarre reminder that if he needs to, he can speak. His body, however, has other ideas and he is startled out of a daydreaming doze by Fenris’s gentle hand (un-gauntleted, which makes him blush a little, as if Fenris’s bare hands are some intimate part of the elf’s flesh). “—ah!”

One dark eyebrow quirks reproachfully. “You fell asleep.”

Defensively, turning his face away, he mutters “I most certainly did not. I _drowsed_. That’s different.” And then Fenris chuckles and Hawke’s heart is in his throat. “B-besides, you told me to stay, and I was kind of—I’m kind of tired, you know? So—“

“It is no trouble,” Fenris assures him, laying that bare hand again on his shoulder through the sheets. “I had to take time to warm the water. Sit up.”

Only after he’s done so does Hawke see the wooden tub (usually reserved for washing the dog, who he realizes is not currently slobbering on his face and thus, he should probably ask about) filled with slightly steaming water. Fenris has laid a sponge and a bar of that strange soap Orana insisted on buying beside it on the floor. Puzzled, he takes Fenris’s offered hand, and walks over to the tub, eyeing it with some trepidation. “Are you sure?” he says at last, leaning more heavily than he likes to admit into Fenris’s support.

“You smell terrible,” Fenris tells him primly, not one whit apologetic. “Yes, I am sure.”

"I- not _that_ bad," he mutters wryly. In truth, he has no idea what he smells like. He's so used to it that he's completely unaware of whatever offending odor has brought on this bath. His skin does itch something awful, though, and with a little fussing he steps into the tub, awkwardly sinking down into it. If he sits up straight, he sort of fits. With a good-natured laugh, he tells Fenris, "This is humiliating, you know."

The elf hesitates, sponge in hand, and looks away. "I am sorry."

It takes Hawke considerably longer than he has any right for it to take before he realizes that Fenris is taking him seriously and going to _leave_ and then he acts like a stupid child, gasping "No!" and grabbing Fenris's wrist before he can quite get out of range. They freeze where they are, Hawke staring up into Fenris's unreadable expression, shivering with some deeper fear he can't explain.

Oh, there's that anxious feeling he'd thought he might have gotten rid of, down in the clinic. That feeling of _what will I do, what will I do?_ but deeper than that, the whisper that whittled down his hope to nothing, those three weeks. _Nobody would care, if I disappeared. Nobody will care._ His fingers, wet and slippery, slide from Fenris's wrist before he's finished that thought. Fenris doesn't move, waiting, watching Hawke closely, and then slowly moves back to kneel beside the washtub, picking up the sponge as if that hadn't happened.

"It's been warm," Fenris says vaguely, dipping the sponge in the water and then rubbing it down with the soap until it begins to lather and foam. "You have been sweating all this time, untended; and there are traces of other things."

Hawke says, faintly, "Oh."

"It is not your fault." That is just a fact. As soon as Fenris has said it-- again, in that commanding voice that knows things with a certainty Hawke currently does not feel-- it becomes the truth. He lets out a sigh of pleasant surprise as the sponge touches the back of his neck, scrubbing him clean of filth he'd become so accustomed to he wasn't really aware of it clinging to his skin. "I don't want to embarrass or upset you, Hawke, but you'll need to be honest with me if something reminds you of what happened."

That almost chiding tone makes him chafe in frustration, but he holds his tongue. Telling jokes and laughing in the face of danger are who he _is_. "I'll-- I'll be more serious," he promises, a little dejected at the thought. He'd rather be laughing like a madman than weeping as he did earlier. It tends not to make him quite as tired, for one thing.

"I do not mean for you to be serious," Fenris grumbles. The sponge traces a smooth line along Hawke's shoulder, leaving the skin in its wake tingling. "But you must tell me if something- is unpleasant. Or I will not know to stop."

The rebuke is jarring, but also settles some sense of 'place' in his mind. He nods. "All right."

Suspicion lingers in the silence that follows, but Fenris does not give voice to his thoughts. Perhaps he is wondering if Hawke is only being petulant; mostly, Hawke is floating in something very like sleep, growing ever drowsier as Fenris deftly sponges him clean. It feels good, just to sit and be touched and not have to do anything at all.

And then the magic slips out, when Fenris takes his hand and scrubs the dirt off of his fingernails, gently, gently-- he doesn't mean to, it just-- _happens_.

Like when he was four, and he thought the shadow coming to check in his room was a templar after Father, and the bolt came out and he didn't know what was _happening_ and he'd hit mother with it, and he'd cried and cried and been so afraid that _mother would be angry--_

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He flails, panicked, dumping the tub over quite before he has the wit to realize the only person who just felt that shock was him. Fenris's wide-eyed surprise doesn't do anything to calm his sudden fear of _himself_. He shudders, struggling to get to his feet. "I- I didn't mean to. I-it won't happen again, I--"

Fenris finally gets his attention with a hand on his shoulder (very thoughtfully not his mouth, and he can't help being deliriously grateful for that because he might have gone insane if Fenris had tried), with a sharp word that, oh yes, is his name. "Hawke."

He's quivering in fear, and static is setting all of his hair on end. "I c-can't--"

" _Hawke._ " Dark, green, hypnotically calm eyes. Staring. Right. Into him. "Calm down."

He's breathing sharply, erratically, but he doesn't look away. The crackling sensation bites along his skin, dances on his teeth. It hurts, but he's not about to kill himself, unless he lets the power go. Flames and fortune, there's a lot of it.

"You are safe." Fact.

His fingers twitch, mouth opening to speak. He shuts it, feeling his teeth click. Searches Fenris's face for any sign of lying.

Nothing. Nothing at all. Just concern and the promise to end him, if he really was out of control, because Fenris respects him and knows he wouldn't want to be made Tranquil any more than Anders does. "You are safe, now." _With me._

Slowly, he nods. "Yes." Maybe he ought to be concerned with how relieved he feels about all this, but the static is seeping back under his skin. No more crackles. His hair even behaves itself enough that his attention wanders to the little burns he's just earned on his fingertips, and he frowns at them, as if it's all their fault. "Ow."

With a wry laugh, Fenris hauls him to his feet. "Yes, 'ow'. I think perhaps once you're dry we'd better talk about what happened while you were-- indisposed. You are not entirely yourself."

Hawke snorts softly, letting himself be manhandled over to his desk. There he leans, hit by a wave of pure exhaustion, until Fenris has dried him to some mysterious standard of pristine dryness which remains a mystery to Hawke. "Suppose I don't want to talk about it?" he tries half-heartedly.

Fenris, snarky bastard, just tosses Hawke into his own bed, pointing at his companion's burnt fingers. "Your health depends on your cooperation, Hawke. This is no laughing matter."

"Right," he grumbles, under his facade of petulance. But, thinking about it, he's never lost control of his magic since Father taught him how to keep it in line. Never, not once in all these years. So he agrees, albeit grudgingly, "Right, I'll try."

So while Fenris goes to the door, calling down to Bodahn for assistance, Hawke fiddles with the bed sheets under which he has crawled. It’s embarrassing. “Yes?” Bodahn answers, with such alacrity Hawke suspects the man was actually waiting not far beyond the door. “Oh, what a mess! Shall I clean it up, messere?”

“Please do,” Fenris agrees amiably. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with Bodahn. The man’s just so incredibly nosy about being helpful. “I can help, if you wish.”

“Oh, no. Don’t mind us, serah.” Before Fenris can even stammer in protest, Orana walks through the open door bearing a platter filled with _far_ more fruit and cheese than Hawke could ever eat in the course of an entire day, let alone for a single meal. Fenris gives Bodahn a polite nod and moves with her to the bedside; neither of them will let Hawke say much until he’s eaten a little, though Fenris seems to understand when Hawke can’t eat anymore and very kindly stops Orana from force-feeding him the rest.

Bodahn, complete with sing-songing assistance from Sandal, has just finished relocating the wooden tub to its usual place, cleaning up the spilled water, and now waits at Hawke’s bedside with a friendly smile. “How are you feeling, messere?”

Hawke answers the smile, touched by the man’s invasively gregarious nature. “A bit better, thank you.” He remembers with a start, “Ah—where is Ser Barkley, anyway?”

Fenris’s mouth twitches slightly, almost into a smile. This is somehow a great triumph, and Hawke has to hide his victorious grin. With a cough and a wry look, Bodahn shrugs. “If you’re feeling up to it, messere, I’ll let him out. He’s been whining at the library door since you got back, but I wasn’t sure how steady you’d be on your feet.”

“A legitimate concern,” he agrees readily. “I’ll not be hopping out of bed any time soon, I promise, Bodahn.”

“If you insist,” Bodahn chuckles, an almost paternal twinkle in his eyes. “I’m sure he’ll be right up, then. Will you need anything else?”

Before Hawke can say that he won’t, Fenris intercedes. “In a half-hour, if Orana is free, some music would be very helpful.” The look that he levels Hawke’s way brooks no argument, and before he can wonder too much about why he’s so content with Fenris coming into his house, bossing him around and telling his servants what to do, they’re alone in the room again, and Fenris has brought the chair usually beside Hawke’s desk over so they can sit side by side.

There is so much right and wrong all at once with this picture. Mostly, he remembers that weird feral look in Fenris’s eyes, the way they were almost alight and hey, maybe it’d been the lyrium marks doing their glowy—glowy _thing_ that they do, right—

They are interrupted by Barkley’s haphazard entrance, and Hawke can’t help laughing like an idiot as the mabari lunges up into the bed, all rules about lying next to his human forgotten as he bathes Hawke’s face in kisses. “Whoa, boy!” He grins, scratching behind the ears to keep Barkley from drowning him in slobber. “Missed you, too.”

But as Barkley settles, stubbornly pressed against his side, he can’t ignore the fact that he’s trying to think of a way out of telling Fenris what he wants to hear. Ultimately, he ends up not saying anything for a palpably tense minute or two.

“If you are uncomfortable, you can wait to talk about it until tomorrow.” This concession is completely without judgment; Fenris will not label Hawke a coward for wanting to wait, but he won’t budge, either. He can’t combat what he doesn’t know. So even though Hawke is extremely at odds with the very idea of talking about what happened, because if he does he might start remembering in vivid detail, he decides he oughtn’t wait.

“Soup was the only thing I could eat,” he manages to say, a little too fast. As soon as he’s said the words, he sees understanding crystallize in Fenris’s grimace. He had not expected Fenris to hold his hand, but is startled by the sting of singed fingertips being bumped. It takes a while before he can say more, but now that he’s started, he almost doesn’t want to stop until he tells Fenris everything. “I couldn’t _see._ Or do anything, without Ashaad.”

He speaks, in low tones, about the first few days: the weight of the collar; having it activated whenever he tried to escape, until they’d had to bring another Saarebas over to heal him so it could all start again; the shame of every act, knowing he could not do them without Ashaad’s help; that his magic was gone, except when Ashaad was training him, and only ever enough for exactly what was asked of him, especially after his first few attempts to escape. He admits that Ashaad wasn’t kind to him, but kinder than the rest. That he had grown to depend on the Qunari holding the control to guide every action—each step he took, when he woke, slept, ate, or was permitted to void himself.

Telling these things leaves him feeling ashamed of what he permitted to happen (not that he could have done anything about it), and aching and tired as if he had been crying. He’s almost surprised that he didn’t.

Not quite as surprised as he is by Fenris pulling him up into a fiercely possessive embrace, biting his throat and growling softly, holding him tightly until he relaxes and holds Fenris back.

“Fenris--?” he asks, when Fenris finally lets him go, stroking his face almost tenderly with those deliciously bare hands. He’s not quite sure what he wants to ask, though inquiring after the unexpected, still warm mark he can feel on his throat does come to mind.

Orana steps into the room, and Fenris shakes his head, saying only, “You are safe.” _Because you are mine_ is clearly appended in Fenris’s intense, hungry eyes.

With that timid sweetness that has always made his heart ache for her, Orana picks up her lute, dusting it off and quietly tuning it, with slender fingers cautious on the knobs, barely tapping the strings as she holds the bowl up to her ear, gauging pitch. Twisting the knobs tighter until she is satisfied, she strums a soft, fading chord, then seems to notice that they are paying her attention and stammers, “I-I was told that you had sent for me, messere?”

Hawke can’t help smiling at her. “Yes. Er, well. Fenris did.”

She glances nervously at Fenris, circling around the bed to the other side, where she encounters Barkley’s curious eyes. The dog blinks at her, scooting a bit closer to Hawke to make room for her to sit down. Sort of. “Is—is it all right if I sit beside you, messere?”

“Barkley, you great oaf, let her sit,” Hawke laughs, tugging one of the dog’s ears. With a whuff of disapproval, Barkley scoots down toward Hawke’s feet, where very little of the bed is being taken up and he can crouch protectively in peace. “Sourpuss.”

“Oh, he’s been very lonely while you were gone,” Orana promises hastily, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, twisted a bit so she can set the lute on her lap and still turn to see him. Hawke is embarrassed by her choice of seating arrangements, just a little; suppose she sees the mark? but doesn’t protest, especially since Fenris is still holding his hand, stroking the back of it with one thumb in smooth, calming motions. “We all were.”

“Let’s have a sailing song, then,” Hawke says, cathartic weariness giving way to bolstered spirits. “Those generally have to do with coming home at some point, don’t they?”

Orana’s smile is blinding bright. “Oh, yes, messere. Gladly.”

Almost, he’s surprised by Fenris’s willingness to share the room with her. He’s known Orana’s strange devotion to be quite the sore point for Fenris; but today, it seems her childlike exuberance is excused as being simply that of a child. Her quick fingers pluck a string of strangely familiar chords from the lute’s strings, beating a rhythm he’s oddly comfortable with.

Ah; a Ferelden song from the war with Orlais. In spite of himself, he starts singing along when he realizes he knows the words.

The real shocker is Fenris, humming tenor to Hawke’s baritone and Orana’s lovely, high soprano, following along to make the song something more than it was when it began, finding the holes in their harmony to make chords laid over the accompanying counter-melody on the lute. They sing the song of the Ferelden rebels, sing of freedom, mud, and cold; high winds; Denerim’s strong walls.

They sing until they are getting hoarse; and when Orana goes to fetch them water, Hawke confesses with a raspy laugh, “All right. _Now_ I feel human again.”

Fenris just makes a soft, hungry noise, and kisses Hawke’s earlobe, as if to say ‘good.’


End file.
